


The Museum of Interest

by RosaClearwater



Series: The Series of Interest [2]
Category: Night at the Museum (Movies), Person of Interest (TV), White Collar
Genre: Enjoy!, Gen, I love me some crossovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-15 04:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaClearwater/pseuds/RosaClearwater
Summary: A slow day at the office is never a good day to be around Neal Caffrey.Especially not when one is Peter Burke._._“I don’t know, Finch. Seems like a pretty average guy.”Then again, many “average guys” turned out to be harboring some sort of dark secret that ended in broken kneecaps or arrests.(Or both...)_._See, everything's been perfectly fine at the museum, had been for months.… So, why's it suddenly feeling as though it was about to all go horribly wrong?_._Aka, what happens when the Museum of Natural History is visited by a vigilante, a charming con-artist, an FBI agent, and a reclusive billionaire who just so happens to be good with computers?





	1. Prologue (Or, "A Slow Day at the Office")

A slow day at the office is never a good day to be around Neal Caffrey.

 

Especially not when one is Peter Burke.

 

“Come on, Peter, it’ll be fun.” Neal’s voice took on an almost childish quality, something that Peter would never admit suited the man perfectly. “Besides, you’ve got to be a fan of Teddy Roosevelt! And there's even _cowboys!_ ”

 

“Neal, that’s hardly the point.” So, what if the 26th President of the United States was up there on the favorite presidents list for the federal agent? Or, that Peter had an interest in Westerns of any kind? “We can’t just call it an early night whenever we want to. And certainly not to just go around some museum that’s definitely _not_ gonna be free of charge. Who’s going to pay for it, _you_?”

 

For all of the bickering currently carrying on in the office, it really said something for their relationship that Peter no longer slammed down any of Neal’s ideas.

 

It also said something about the department’s work -- or lack, thereof -- that the most dedicated of agents was hesitant to give an outright no.

 

Neal recognized these hints of change, even though his friend was clearly too busy pretending to absorbed in his paperwork to do so. The alleged con-artist took this as a small victory when it came to their friendship, and when it came to loosening up his partner a bit.

 

But, the war wasn’t over just yet.

 

“So, Peter, does Elizabeth know how much sleep you’ve been getting?”

 

Since a childish tone never seemed to accomplish much with the agent, the ex-con artist decided to change tactics for once. His question was asked in such a carefree tone, in such a lighthearted manner, that alarm bells were beginning to ring in Peter’s mind.

 

And while it didn't help that Neal was pulling out his phone, the question had already worked the magic by the time Peter realized where this was going.

 

Peter glanced up from his paperwork, taken aback by the sudden shift in topics. His tired eyes widened in wariness before narrowing, his breathing sharpened for a moment, and his hand moved imperceptibly towards his partner's phone, as though he could stop Neal from doing whatever the informant wanted.

 

“You know as well as I that I haven't told El anything about that because she's been swamped with new clients, Neal. Besides, I don’t think that she needs to be concerned about _that_ of all things.” Neal allowed his friend to trail off, content to allow the silence take over before raising an eyebrow.

 

“Oh, really?”

 

Peter stifled a glare at this, not really having the energy or patience to deal with the the current "game".

 

“Neal--”

 

“You see, it would just be such a shame if her work was interrupted because you had some sort of nervous breakdown just because you haven’t been getting enough sleep. And--”

 

 _“Neal_ \--” But the CI unashamedly continued. He did have a point, after all: while work officially ended at 5pm, calling it an early night these days meant stopping by 8 o’clock. The good news was that Neal had come in today pester Peter at 5 -- when their work was supposed to be done.

 

So, if all went according to plan, they’d be out of there by six.

 

 _“And,_ seeing as how I am also Elizabeth’s friend, I would feel a great deal of remorse if I didn’t report this lack of--”

 

“Okay, okay! I give up.” Truly, the ex-con had to clap himself on the back for getting his obstinate friend to back down so quickly. The whole interaction had probably been less than ten minutes, tops.

 

Neal beamed at this capitulation as he rose to his feet, fully aware that he held all the cards in this case. “It’s settled then.” He paused in the doorway, sending one last dazzling grin in the direction of his partner.

 

"Oh, and you've got dinner covered this time, right, Peter?"

 

The man in question couldn't but groan at this, trying to bury his head in his hands as though that would take care of everything.

 

The beam of mischievous joy only grew.

 

_._

 

“I don’t know, Finch. Seems like a pretty average guy.”

 

Then again, many “average guys” turned out to be harboring some sort of dark secret that ended in broken kneecaps or arrests. 

 

(Or both...)

 

 _“Mr. Reese,”_ Came the chiding, tinny tone. _“We do not control the numbers. If the Machine has deemed Mr. Daley to be in some sort of danger, then we have a job to do.”_

 

The vigilante glanced through his camera, scanning the surroundings of their latest Number before snapping a photo. Larry Daley, the night-guard of the Museum of Natural History and number of the night, was just starting his rounds.

 

John had to admit, it was nice to be somewhere where non-flash photography was not only acceptable but expected. 

 

“Whatever you say, _Harold_.”

 

The joy of slow days at the office: even over the chatters of the crowd, John had enough breathing space that he could practically hear his friend's flustered reaction at the remark.

 

The vigilante glanced back at the Number in question, watching him interact with some of the exhibits and calmly take a more pro-active stance towards fulfilling his job description.

 

Yeah, definitely leaning towards the “victim” category on this one.

 

_._

 

It had been a quite a string of slow nights at the office lately. Or, as slow as it could be at the Museum of Natural History.

 

The exhibits were now on their best behavior ever, especially now that the museum had kept the late-night public viewing hours. The “special effects” had truly been a tremendous hit with tourists and New Yorkers alike. Rexy and the miniatures always captivated the little kids, high schoolers seemed particularly enamored with Ahkmenrah, and the adults tended to appreciate the details and “lifelike” qualities of all the exhibits.

 

There had been no catapults hurling mini-fireballs into the crowd, no limbs being ripped apart by overzealous Huns, and no attempted robberies by jaded ex-employees. No fights between cowboys and gladiators, no destruction of property via cavemen, and McPhee actually cracked a smile at him at some point.

 

Still, something wasn’t feeling quite right lately.

 

 _(Maybe_ _,_ a very sarcastic part of his brain eagerly supplied, _It’s_ **_because_ ** _McPhee smiled at me.)_

 

Either way, Larry wasn’t quite able to put his finger on whatever was up. And, as he was readying himself for the new night, he couldn’t help but feel that sense of "something's wrong" grow within him.

 

See, everything's been perfectly fine at the museum, had been for months.

 

… So, why's it suddenly feeling as though it was about to all go horribly wrong?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwhuahahahahahahah xD Just typing this up is making me so excited! I’ve always wanted to a proper crossover story of sorts :) And I’ve always love throwing shout-outs to some of my favorite fanfics/shows :D 
> 
> Just for clarification, this is all taking place in 2012-ish land. So, NAMT 2’s been over for a bit, Shaw and Root aren’t on the team just yet (Sorry, Shoot fans!), and WC is just doing its thing :) 
> 
> Also, I have ideas on where this could go, but I’m always down for suggestions/comments/thoughts! Just know that I’m trying to keep this as PG as possible.
> 
>  
> 
> **One Last Thought for You All:**
> 
>  
> 
> I'm debating between making this a proper story or a series of oneshots handling this premise. What do you think?
> 
> In any case, I hope you have a lovely day! :)


	2. Of Capuchins and 26th Presidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s _so_ good to be back. And, I didn’t realize how amazing it was to wake up to see kudos and comments from both new and old readers. 
> 
> (Totally didn’t tear up for a solid minute).
> 
> Speaking of author decisions, I’m going to challenge myself to make this a proper short story instead of a series of oneshots! 
> 
> But, now, it’s time for the reading. Enjoy!

“Good evening, Mr. President!” Larry called out in passing, giving a semi-salute to the 26th President and one of his dearest friends. Teddy smiled at this, returning the gesture before addressing the crowd before him.

 

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see…” The former president began to speak with absolute pride, quite happy to show off all of the exhibits. It really was always a pleasure to walk past Teddy throughout the night, especially if things were bordering on chaotic.

 

And if the former president seem to spend a little extra time guiding people towards the Lewis and Clark exhibit, who was Larry to say anything?

 

_._

 

Peter and Neal had now passed by the 26th President two times and still hadn't quite noticed: the former still in a bit of an awed daze while the latter couldn’t stop smirking. It had been like this for the last five minutes: upon seeing how “lifelike” everything was -- especially since he hadn’t visited in years -- the FBI agent was dumbstruck.

 

“I’ve gotta say, Neal,” His partner looked at him curiously at this, pleased to notice the old tension of the last few weeks was finally starting to dissipate.

 

“Yeah, Peter?”

 

The FBI agent came to a stop, considerately stepping out of the way of other visitors. But he wasn’t really paying attention to any of that. He seemed to only be able to smile, eyes lit with a wonder at the indescribable warmth and happy energy that was currently flooding the place.

 

“This was a good decision. Thank you.”

 

Neal came to a complete halt at the straightforward praise, shocked by the simple gratitude that was coming so easily from his friend.

 

He turned, focusing all of his energy on his partner because he just had to make sure this was for real.

 

“Really?”

 

Peter smiled, matching his level of attention perfectly.

 

“Really.”

 

_._

 

“You know, these are some impressive special effects, Finch.” John eventually murmured, having been observing the exhibits for a fair amount of time. “You might be out of a job soon if the rest of technology catches up.”

 

_“Oh?”_ There was a hint of something in the man’s voice, but John couldn't quite decipher the attitude.

 

“Jealous, Finch?” Taking a stab in the dark almost always proved to be entertaining around his friend.

 

_“Hardly.”_

 

_Aka, Finch-speak for absolutely._

 

Apparently, the man was ruffled enough tonight that his remarks were straying away from even a cordial tone.

 

“You know, a museum makes for an interesting change in scenery, Finch.”

 

_“Speaking of **your job** , there anything worthy of report, Mr. Reese?” _

 

He knew he was treading on, as Finch would primly say, _inordinately_ thin ice.

 

Didn't mean he was gonna play it safe.

 

“In regards to our number or natural history, Finch?”

 

_“...”_

 

“Because I'd say _everything_ in a museum should be worthy of report. And, frankly, Harold, I'm disappointed that you seem to be of a different opinion.”

 

_“...”_

 

John waited a few more moments before deciding to take some form of pity on his employer. That, and it was clear that Harold wasn’t really in the mood for their normal banter currently.

 

“Everything’s fine here, Finch.”

 

_“... Good.”_ Ah, so Harold was going to stick to one word responses for the rest of the night.

 

Well, the snippy attitude did make sense: this particular case meant that they’d have to be pulling all-nighters on a daily basis to make sure everything went okay. And they still didn't know exactly what "okay" meant. So, all in all, any unintentional rudeness was probably due to a need for a little sleep.

 

But John valued his life. And, therefore, he was going to refrain from mentioning that piece of advice for now.

 

Nonetheless, the man did want to hear his friend speak more than one word. Which meant he had to just keep trying to converse.

 

“So, Finch, what can you tell me about Ahkmenrah?” As night two came to a start, John soon realized that he had to act more invested in the exhibits if he didn’t want to stick out. Oddly enough, even with the lack of functioning surveillance, he still felt like he was always being watched. It wasn’t alarming, but it was… concerning.

 

“Technology is my main area of expertise, Mr. Reese, _not_ Ancient Egypt.”

 

_Snarky one-liners: a step in the right direction._

 

“Well, you can't always be perfect.” A disdainful scoff came over the comm-link at this, causing the employee’s smirk to widen.

 

But, he couldn’t stay here and banter forever. He did have a job to do, after all.

 

John continued back on the path, purposefully meandering just enough to keep Larry within a reasonable distance. Not too close, not too far. After all, if he were spotted too often around the security guard, suspicions would arise.

 

Granted, he could probably create a little more space between them. In a place like this, one that’s brimming with so much life, it’s a little difficult seeing anything go down.

 

That didn’t mean John was at all relaxed or inclined to call it a night.

 

It just meant the gut feeling of “You’re in trouble and Finch better not even _think_ of coming here to help.” wasn’t ringing loud and clear.

 

Or, at least, he wasn’t feeling that just yet.

 

The night was still young after all….

 

“So, Finch,” There was one more question that came to mind, one he really hoped would get a genuine answer.

 

_“Yes, Mr. Reese?”_

 

“Do you--”

 

But that's all he was going to be able to say. Normally, he only paused if something ridiculous was occurring or if he were taken off-guard. The former rarely happened and the latter just didn't happen.

 

Of course, there's always an exception to prove the rule. So, when a monkey zipped through the air, gleefully smacking into the vigilante before stealing his camera with his tail and promptly running off... John could only trail off and stare. 

 

_“DEXTER!”_

 

Before John could even register what the hell had happened, their number was already chasing after the little guy and shouting at the top of his lungs.

 

_“Mr. Reese?”_

 

And, oddly enough, it didn’t seem to be an unusual routine.

 

_“Mr. Reese, are you alright?”_

 

… At least for them. For John, on the other hand, it was a completely different story.

 

_“John, are you okay?”_

 

John mentally cursed himself for not immediately responding to Finch before re-focusing his attention to the situation at hand.

 

“Yeah, Finch, I’m fine.”

 

_“What happened, Mr. Reese?”_

 

“A…” He really didn’t know how to describe this without 1) sounding unbelievable and 2) sounding absolutely incompetent. “A monkey just stole my camera.”

 

_“... Really, Mr. Reese?”_

 

“He’s actually a capuchin,” The woman in charge of the Lewis and Clark chimed in helpfully, and John swore he could see a twinkle of mirth in her eyes.

 

“Thanks.” He stiffly responded, barely keeping the sarcasm from escaping. Instead he sighed to himself, allowing a brief moment of irritation before taking off in the direction that Larry and the “capuchin” took off.

 

_“Are you sure you’re quite alright, Mr. Reese?”_

 

“Just peachy, Harold.” He paused, picking up a little speed before muttering something under his breath.

 

_"I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that. Care to share with the rest of the class?"_

 

John really had to refrain from rolling his eyes at that comment before dutifully repeating himself in a clearer tone.

 

“And this is why I prefer birds.”

 

_“... I didn’t realize it was a competition, Mr Reese.”_

 

This coaxed an equivalent of a smirk back to the man’s face. And, before he knew it he had caught up to night-guard. Said night-guard was currently struggling to retrieve the camera from the squirming little bast-- capuchin.

 

“Always, Finch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I can’t guarantee daily updates. But, I can guarantee that this is going to be fun :D 
> 
> I can also guarantee I'm going to be sprinkling a lot of references (both to my own work and to others). Kudos to you if you catch them! :)
> 
> Now, as always, have a nice day!


	3. An(other) Error in Judgment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adventure is right around the corner, ladies and gentlemen, I promise!

“Here, allow me to help,” A kind voice came into the fold as Larry was still struggling with reigning in Dexter and retrieving the camera.

 

John gestured towards the struggle, for once not volunteering himself. Of course, if he had volunteered he knew he’d be too irritated to handle the situation as delicately as he should.

 

"Be my guest."

 

"Thanks."

 

The blue eyed man smiled at the gesture before approaching the night-guard still entangled in the capuchin and the camera.

 

“Neal,” Another man called out warningly. Though, whether it was a warning to be careful or a warning not to do anything stupid John couldn’t quite figure out.

 

“I’ll be fine, Peter,” Neal raised his arms slightly with his hands open -- to show that he wasn’t going to make any sudden movements.

 

“Dexter, you said his name was?” He asked Larry, who nodded while trying to hold the capuchin still and maneuver the camera out of the little guy’s hands.

 

 

“Dexter,” A soothingly gentle whisper sounded at the confirmation of the name, pulling the primate’s attention away from the night-guard. “Dexter, can I have the camera, please?”

 

The capuchin in question seemed to think this over for a moment. Then, he untangled himself from Larry and handed the camera over.

 

“Seriously?” The night-guard was staring in disbelief. “But, every time _I_ ask you something, I get sl--” The slap came out of left field and Dexter seemed to be cackling at the situation.  _"Seriously?"_

 

John felt a little sympathy for the New Yorker, but was far more invested in getting his camera back from Neal.

 

“Thanks,” He said, far more genuinely this time around than he had been with that museum woman.

 

“No problem.” But, there was something that had caught the man’s eye. It wouldn’t be obvious to the outside world, but John noted something seemed off with the man.

 

And, he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

 

“Neal?” Peter approached the pair, causing his partner to look away from the man in the suit for a brief moment.

 

“Just giving the man his camera back, Peter. Which reminds me, what did you say your name was?”

 

By the time Neal had turned around to direct his dazzling blue eyes on John, the vigilante was already long gone.

 

That only caused further suspicion.

 

“You didn’t take anything did you?” For what was supposed to be a joke, it was asked in a rather serious tone.

 

“What am I, four? Of course I didn’t take anything, Peter.”

 

“... Did you take anything _when_ you were four?” Neal laughed at this, knowing the answer and not feeling any inclination to just hand it over to his friend. Instead, he continued to walk off towards some new exhibits.

 

“Neal?”

 

The alleged con artist kept on nonchalantly strutting through the halls, his smirk widening by the second.

 

“Neal, that wasn’t an answer!”  

 

_._

 

As visiting hours came to a close, John decided to not push his luck inside the museum. Instead, he decided to skulk and slink around the building -- waiting for Larry to close up shop.

 

After doing so for a few hours, he realized the man either snuck out when he wasn't paying attention -- hardly likely -- or the number was still inside.

 

_“Well, he is the_ **_night-guard_** _, Mr. Reese.”_ John ignored the quip, staring at the museum.

 

“You mean there's no one else for the graveyard shift?”

 

A few clicks on the keyboard and Finch had the official answers.

 

“Not only do they not seem to have the budget for more guards, Mr. Daley has recommended that no new night guards were to be hired.”

 

Well, there went the idea of Reese going undercover. Probably for the best seeing as how that damn capuchin had already brought him into the spotlight.

 

Nevertheless, since hacking the video surveillance was out -- much to Finch’s irritation -- that meant John needed to keep the target in sight at almost all times.

 

Which meant he now had to do his skulking and slinking _inside_ the museum.

 

Three minutes later, and John had accomplished the first half of the mission. The second-half, successfully getting eyes on Larry was going to be a little more complicated.

 

Now, as stated in an earlier moment of this little story, John Reese is not one to give a start or scare easily. Normally, the closest equivalent to expressing surprise would be through blinking briefly or quirking an eyebrow, if that. Maybe an apathetic or scathing remark, but that was usually reserved only for Lionel.

 

This was one of those rare moments where he was going to have to defy expectations.

 

For the second time in one night.

 

“Finch?”

 

_“Yes, Mr. Reese?”_

 

“I think there’s something more to this museum than meets the eye.”

 

_“I would certainly hope so, Mr. Reese, seeing as how we’ve already spent two nights surveilling the place.”_

 

He wanted to snap some pithy remark right back. Instead, he settled for taking pictures of the “animatronics” still working inside long after shop closed up. Maybe that’d be enough evidence to prove his point.

 

Maybe.

 

Knowing Finch, he would raise an eyebrow at the pictures of a museum seemingly coming to life. Then he would fix John with that particular look -- the one that contained a mixture of disbelief and disdain. That would be followed by some form of “Mr. Reese, I don’t believe I pay you to photoshop images in your spare time.”

 

A sigh escaped into the night before the camera was snapped a few more times.

 

Really, for all that Finch paid him, it sometimes just wasn't enough.

 

_._

 

**_A few hours earlier..._ **

 

“So, how was it, Peter? Just like you remember?” The agent in question smiled at this, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

“I hate to say it, but it was almost… magical. They’ve definitely worked on the special effects since I last came.” Neal smirked at this, a rather sarcastic remark on the tip on his tongue.

 

But, this was special. This had been a different night for the pair and Neal wasn't going to ruin the end with sarcasm. 

 

"Think you'll come back?"

 

"Probably at some point in the future. You?"

 

"Maybe." He definitely would. After all, now having accidentally caught a glimpse of what exactly was on that man’s camera, Neal had a feeling he'd be making at least one more visit this week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dun dun duuuunnnnnnn*
> 
> Tune in next time for the adventures of John, Harold, Peter, Neal, and Larry! And friends! 
> 
> (And I hope you have a nice day! :D )


	4. And, So, It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just want to say, all of these comments and kudos and bookmarks and subscriptions have been so awesome. It’s been a not-so-great week, and you all have helped make it awesome in more ways than I can say <3
> 
> Also, there’s totally going to be a cameo made by one of my favorite characters in this chapter. Nevertheless, it’s just a cameo and not a plot hint ;)
> 
> And, finally, this chapter just greewwww. You’ve been warned.

 

“Where are you headed off to, partner?”

 

It had been a day since their visit to the museum and something was wrong with Neal. The alleged con artist appeared to be perfectly fine, but Peter knew in his gut something was up with his friend.

 

“Just want to check something out. Besides, the day’s officially over, Peter. Maybe I just want to call it an early night.”

 

“Neal,” The agent started to speak in an exasperated manner, purely out of habit. But, something was different this time: he took a mental step back and tried a different tactic. “Something’s been bothering you ever since we left the museum yesterday.”

 

At this, Neal uncharacteristically shifted in the doorway. It was a minute reaction, definitely not something anyone would normally pick up.

 

But there’s a reason Peter had eventually caught him. And a reason they worked so well together.

 

_Bingo._

 

“You want to tell me what’s up?” He tried not to make his voice sound too patronizing because Neal was many things but _helpless_ was never one of them. Luckily, it looked like he got the right message across for once.

 

But, Neal wasn’t one to easily budge.

 

“Am I talking to my friend or the guy who tracks my anklet?” Casually spoken, it didn’t betray any of the wariness apparent in those blue eyes.

 

“Your friend.” The wariness didn’t quite fade at this, but it was settling down. It still took another minute for the informant to hand over his thoughts, but he eventually did.

 

“I think someone might be planning something.” Peter couldn’t help but stare at this.

 

_“What?_ ”

 

“Remember that guy who had his camera taken by that capuchin?” The agent nodded at the question, curious to see where this was going. “When I handed him back his camera, I accidentally saw a few photos.”

 

“What’d you see?” Neal internally sighed in relief, pleased that Peter really believed the moment to have been an accident.

 

“It was pictures of the museum focusing _only_ on the night guard.” The agent raised an eyebrow, waiting for more information. “That’s all I got, but that was enough to tell me something’s up.”

 

Ordinarily, there’d be a joke made at this -- some sort of flippant remark about Neal’s criminal history. This time, it was a far more serious attitude that dominated the room.

 

“So you were going to go back and, what, scope the place out yourself?”

 

“I just want to see if the guy had returned at all. Peter, why would someone take pictures of only the security at a museum?”

 

Peter looked at his friend, contemplating something. For once, he had a good poker face because Neal wasn’t really able to really get a bead on the situation.

 

“Alright. Just let me finish up over here, and we’ll head on over in a moment.”

 

_“We?"_  The agent focused his stare at Neal.

 

“We.” He repeated. “If something’s going down, I’m not interested in you being alone. Besides,” A joke was finally coming, that much was obvious. “I’d hate for you to take advantage of the situation if it turns into a heist.”

 

The alleged con artist didn’t smile at that.

 

He outright smirked.

 

“Peter, when have I ever taken advantage of a situation?”

 

The man snorted at this, not even shooting off a vexed look at his friend.

 

“Do I even need to respond to that?”

 

_._

 

_“Mr. Reese,”_ Harold wasn’t quite exasperated, but he was definitely carrying a wary tone. _“Do you really believe some sort of magical force is the cause behind the lifelike displays?”_

 

After catching some sleep, John went back to Larry’s place. Although it was hardly likely the man would be in any danger when he was clearly comatose, Finch would hardly be in the best of moods if something did happen.

 

“Well, maybe when all of this blows over, I can show you what I mean.” Because photos apparently didn’t do it justice.

 

_“You mean, if Larry is indeed the victim and we somehow don’t permanently ban ourselves from the museum? I’d be delighted, Mr. Reese.”_

 

_._

 

**_A few hours later..._ **

  


“My liege,” Having now managed to attract his attention through the crowds, Octavius allowed his features to become more concerned. “This may not be of any relevance, but I felt you should be alerted--”

 

“What’s up, Octavius?” Larry tried to look calmly into the crowd, even though his own concern grew at “relevance”, “alerted” and, oh yeah, maybe the fact that Octavius never looks this concerned.

 

“Well, my liege, some of my men couldn’t help but overhear a conversation one of the visitors was conducting.” Larry focused his eyes on scanning the throngs of people for any pairs or suspicious groups. “And, upon hearing the nature of the conversation, my men decided to involve me--"

 

“And me!” Jed piped in, causing Octavius to almost roll his eyes.

 

“As I was saying, we deemed it necessary to bring you this news. Also, my liege, there seems to be a slight problem with one of the exhibits--”

 

“What’s wrong, Octavius?” Yeah, concern was going to be a difficult thing to stop having if Octavius didn’t stop being so cryptic.

 

“Well, in regards to the overheard conversation... _you_ were the topic, my liege.”

 

_Huh?_

 

“And the guy didn’t actually seem to be talking to anyone, Gigantor.”

 

_Wait, what?_

 

“Describe the guy to me, Octavius.” Octavius stood up as steathfully as possible while skimming the crowd.

 

“I’m not currently seeing him, my liege. But, he was a tall man in a suit with piercing eyes.” At this, both Larry and Jed paused to stare at the Roman.

 

“What? They were!”

 

But, Larry was already speeding off because he just spotted the guy. Fortunately, he remembered to slip Jed and Octavius into his pocket before confronting the man.

 

“Hey, buddy, not trying to cause any trouble or anything--” Larry started to speak but was interrupted by a tugging from inside his pocket.

 

_Now what?_

 

He obviously couldn’t address the miniatures in front of any visitor. But, something was clearly wrong. And, so, it was with a growing tension that Larry waited for the stranger to turn around.

 

“Hi,” A boyish, easy-going smile greeted him, complete with piercing blue eyes and a lighthearted tone. “Is there a problem, sir?”

 

“ _You?_ Uh,” He hadn’t been expecting to meet the hero of last night’s capuchin chaos again. The inside of his pocket was tugged once again, and Larry resisted the urge to grimace. The urge multiplied when the blue-eyed man was joined by his companion from last night.

 

“Is Neal causing you any trouble, sir?”

 

“Not at all, just thought your boyfriend here was someone else.” Both men gave a start at this, and Larry quickly realized his mistake. But, before he could fix his faux pas, he was already getting interrupted.

 

“Oh, Neal’s not my boyfriend! He’s actually just my part-- m-- my...  _partner_.” Apparently, "partner" seemed to be putting it strangely, as both men had mixed reactions to the statement.

 

“Oh, Peter, I didn’t realize we were officially announcing it yet.” The blue-eyed man wrapped an arm tenderly around his partner, sending another charming smile to the night guard.

 

Peter could only painfully smile before looking directly at Neal.

 

“Well, _sweetie_ ,” Larry cringed at the awkward vibe now radiating within this little scene. “I figured, ‘Why not?’ Now, didn’t you mention something about wanting to see the cowboys, _honey?_ ”

 

With that, the pair walked off. Strangely enough, Peter seemed to shake off his partner’s arm the moment they were a safe distance away.

 

_Well, that was weird--_

 

“My liege?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Gigantor!”

 

“Oh, oh, right. What were you trying to tell me, Jed? Octavius?”

 

“As I was _trying_ to say, my liege _”_ Someone was clearly irritated, “That was not the man I wanted to bring to your attention.”

 

“Yeah, I got that!”

 

“... Though, his eyes _were_ rather piercing.”

 

Larry could only groan while Jed stared accusingly at his friend for a few seconds.

 

“You can’t tell me you honestly were taken in by him, Octy, he--”

 

“I can’t help it if I’m particularly susceptible to brilliant blue eyes, Jedidiah.” Octavius defended himself hotly, before unwillingly blushing as he realized the implications of his impulsively spoken confession. This caused his friend to give a start, quite taken aback by the flustered remark.

 

"Well, if blue eyes is all that's required, Octy--"

 

_"Hardly."_ It seemed the Roman General had been currently reduced to the mind of a rather self-conscious teenager.

 

“Guys,” Larry warned, needing silence in order to properly skim the crowds. He also really didn't want to be witness to more awkward romantic situations tonight if he could help it.

 

“Sorry.” But the night-guard had already eagerly moved on back to his search.

 

Tall man in a suit with his back to Larry, check.

 

Piercing eyes, semi-check (he couldn’t actually agree with Octavius on this one, if only because of the principle of the matter).

 

Menacing attitude towards Larry and in general? … Can’t really give a check on that one either, the guy seemed genuinely interested in the exhibits themselves.

 

Getting closer to the suspect, he slowed down and passed the time pretending to look over the displays. Right as he was about to properly approach, Mr. Potential Suspect was approached by someone else...?

 

“John, I didn’t expect to bump into you here.”

 

And, suddenly, the mood changed.

 

“Elias,” It was a calm greeting that somehow struck the night guard as a veiled threat. How the man conveyed a threat by only saying a name was lost on the night-guard, but he had more pressing matters.

 

_Seriously?_ Larry quickly recognized the voice from last night’s little episode, hardly believing the coincidence. _I knew the museum’s a hit, but I didn’t think it’d be_ **_that_ ** _much of a hit._

 

“Relax, John, I'm simply a surveyor of Natural History tonight.” That did very little to relax the man. In fact, the space seemed even tenser now, if that were even possible.

 

“You better not have any business here tonight, Elias.” The statement was gently spoken, the threat ringing loud and clear. At the sound of it, another man moved out of the shadows next to this Elias guy.

 

Now, it honestly sounded almost like this Elias was the bad guy, but how could such a harmless looking guy do anything? The guy even looked like one of Nicky’s teachers, for Ra’s sake.

 

_Wait-- when did you start saying ‘for Ra’s sake’?_

 

So caught up in his own momentary confusion, Larry almost missed the rest of the conversation.

 

“Haven't you heard, John? It's date night.” Elias dripped the words in a lighthearted tone but his companion’s smiling eyes somehow displayed the couple’s own threats. “Speaking of, where's _Harold?”_

 

At this remark, the man simultaneously became flustered, aggravated, and chillingly still.

 

“Leave Finch out of this. As I've told you both before--”

 

Larry Daley was confused to say the least by the interaction. But, it really didn’t seem like someone was plotting anything against him here, so he didn’t really have to stick around.

 

_Where is this damn guy?_

 

“My liege,”

 

_And what exactly does he want with me?_

 

“My liege--” Octavius repeated once more, still not getting Larry’s full attention.

 

“Larry!” The night-guard gave a jump at Jedidiah’s sharper-than-normal tone.

 

Oh, and the fact that the cowboy had actually used his first name.

 

“What?” He whispered, ducking over to a less-crowded part of the room.

 

“That was him. That was the guy, Gigantor!”

 

_“What?”_   


But, by the time Larry had turned back to the mysterious man in the suit, he had already left the area.

 

_Damn it._

 

_._

 

_“Finch.”_ That raspy whisper stirred Harold from his thoughts, and he looked up as though John were in the room.

 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?” The glow of his computers were helping to keep him awake. But, once they realized that something was stopping their normal surveillance tactics and that John was their only pair of eyes in the situation, Harold had essentially been... a sitting duck.

 

Suffice to say, bored out of his skull was an understatement when it came to describing the billionaire’s current mood.

 

_“I think something’s going down. Larry’s been on some sort of alert all night.”_

 

“Oh dear.”

 

They didn’t speak for another minute or so, John waiting for instructions and Harold merely thinking through the possibilities.

 

Or, rather, that’s what John figured Harold was doing. In actuality, the recluse was procrastinating on delivering one of the potential contingencies he’d come up with when they first realized surveillance wasn’t going to work in their favor.

 

“Mr. Reese, stay wherever you are. I’ll be on my way shortly.”

 

_“Finch, stay where you are. We don’t know where the threat is coming from.”_

 

Of course, John wasn’t really talking about the case at hand. He was thinking about the fact that Root was still at large. He was concerned about his handicapped friend getting caught up in something that they hardly knew about. He was remembering that Finch was almost killed just a few weeks ago by a serial killer and then had a gun pointed at him in a casino.

 

The fact that Finch was normally pretty helpless in the fighting aspects of being in the field -- self-defense lessons aside -- was also coming to mind.

 

“On the contrary, Mr. Reese.”

 

Harold knew exactly where his friend’s thoughts were going.

 

That was one of the reasons why he needed to do this.

 

“This is a matter of _absolute_ relevance.”

Even over the silence of the comm-link, he could hear John’s unspoken irritation at his decision. And, while Finch was quite stubborn in his own right, he also knew when to compromise.

 

“Would it help if I took Bear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, our concerned third parties still have no idea as to whether or not Larry is the perp or the victim, Larry is on the look-out for some guy in a suit, and our White Collar boys are definitely going to get properly caught up in it soon.


	5. Awkward Introductions are Awkward

“Neal, we shouldn’t be here this late.” He whispered in the dark, not in the mood to play games. “Nothing’s happened and nothing’s likely to happen _here_ of all places.”

 

“C’mon, Peter, where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, you can always take out your badge if we get caught.”

 

“Being a member of the FBI is a privilege I never intend to abuse, especially when you’d be the reason, Neal. Now, where’s the exit?”

 

“Sorry, Peter.” _No, you’re definitely not!_ “They’re still talking, so we can’t risk it.”

 

“Seriously?”  


They had stayed an extra thirty minutes after the museum officially closed. How his partner managed to charm him into breaking the rules for that long, Peter didn’t know.

 

Nor would he ever fully understand how he allowed himself to be thrown into a utility closet just as the night-guard was rounding the corner. But here they were, and here they were going to stay until the night-guard -- _Larry, I think it was?_ \-- decided to leave the vicinity. Or, Neal was satisfied with their ability to make a stealthy escape.

 

Neither option looked like it’d be happening any time soon.

 

Apparently, Larry was content to strike up conversation with one of the costumed workers -- a guy named Ahkmenrah? And as fascinating Peter was sure the conversation was, the agent knew his informant would not even think of budging from blocking the door until that conversation had ceased.

 

Of course, in order for Neal to move, Peter would have to adjust himself. In the process of being thrown into the small space, it had turned into a silent tumble of bodies. It was like some twisted version of… Twister.

 

And, Peter was not ever going to admit that it was far more comfortable than he expected.

 

_._

 

_“So, who is it, the Russians? The Irish?”_ Lionel Fusco was not going to be pulled out of bed for just anything.

 

Sadly for him, he didn’t really have a say in this particular matter.

 

“No. It’s in fact a secret organization that has been planning to bring their AI to life via the tablet of Ahkmenrah, Detective.”

 

_“Really?”_

 

John suspiciously coughed something along the lines of “New York’s finest” while Finch fixed his phone with the look “Are you really this dense?”

 

_“Yeah, I love you, too.”_

 

“Yes, well, your ability to provide efficient support would be much appreciated, Detective.” Though he still shot John a look that conveyed a rather different message.

 

Of course, he didn’t voice his real opinion -- that waking up Fusco and dragging him over here was an ‘inordinately unnecessary decision, one that is hardly conducive in regards to the current situation’.

 

_“No worries, Glasses, I’m already starting the car. You call Carter?”_

 

“Yes.” Another dark look was angled in the direction of the person who had also made that decision.

 

_“Good. Say hi to Wonderboy for me.”_

 

As the conversation came to a close, John focused his penetrating stare on his friend.

 

“Bear is to stay with you at all times, Finch.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Reese.”

 

“And, you’re not going to come after me if something goes wrong.” Harold defiantly arched an eyebrow at this, choosing to remain silent.

 

“Finch.” The last thing he wanted was for his friend to throw himself into harm’s way on his behalf. And, if everything went like normal, that meant it would all go wrong in a few hours -- give or take.

 

“John,” Harold started with a scoff, before settling into a thin smile. “Surely you’ve learned by now that I’m not going to listen to you when it comes to those regards.”

 

They maintained eye contact for a few more moments, almost leaning into one another.

 

“Harold,” He began, not really sure of what he wanted to say. But he knew there was something that needed to be said.

 

“Yes, John?” If there had been any space between the two, it was certainly now fading away.

 

“I just wanted to say,”

 

That was, of course, when Finch’s phone went off.

 

“ _Yes_ , Detective?”

 

_“You did say the Museum of Natural History, right?”_ Harold was not going to sigh, he was not going to roll his eyes, and he was certainly not going to snip at Lionel because he was overwhelmed by whatever that previous moment had been.

 

“Yes, Detective. The Museum of Natural History.”

 

_“... Did I interrupt something, Glasses?”_

 

_Yes, you did. But, seeing as how I’m inept at human interaction and couldn’t possibly be reading this situation as I’d like to.... I’m going to use this conversation to put back some of those necessary boundaries in my most valued relationsh-- friendsh-- employment… friendship._

 

“No, Detective. Not at all.”

 

_“Whatever you say.”_

 

John was already heading back into the museum by the time Finch had hung up, as though nothing had almost happened.

 

“Mr. Reese?”

 

“Come on, Finch, we need to get to work.” _So, I was correct in believing I miscalculated whatever that had been._

 

If a sense of pity takes over the recluse at the thought, he swipes it aside in favor of getting to work. After all, that was what they were there for.

 

“So, what exactly is the plan, Finch?”

 

_._

 

“Would you believe me, Mr. Reese, if I said I didn’t have one?”

 

A remote controlled car quietly followed the two strangers, with one job in mind: Figure out what on Earth that guy was doing and what he wanted with Larry.

 

See, Jedidiah and Octavius were rather protective of their night-guard. So, as nice as the guy seems to be, when he brings up words like “perpetrator” and “victim” in a conversation about Larry, it doesn’t matter if he seems nice. They’re going to make sure he’s not a threat.

 

And, if he is a threat, they’re going to take him and his friend down.

 

But, their musings had been interrupted by a chuckle -- the taller man in the suit’s chuckle.

 

“Funny, Harold. So, what’s the plan?”

 

And that’s when they were spotted.

 

_._

 

John Reese was many things, but obtuse never made the list.

 

“Hold on, Harold.” He had noticed a little remote controlled car out of the corner of his eye, one that hadn’t been there before.

 

Remote controlled cars would never be allowed in such a place -- especially since he ascertained how the man in charge of everything, a Mr. McPhee, puts Finch’s need for decorum to shame.

 

So, as silly as it may have looked, he was not taking any chances.

 

Both men approached it cautiously but John took the lead, examining any aspect and every aspect he could. While there didn’t really seem to be anything inside or around it, in their line of work they could never be too careful.

 

“Fascinating,” The genius remarked, taking another step forward.

 

“Stay back until I’ve looked it over, Finch.”

 

He warily bent over to look it over more carefully, catching sight of two miniatures inside the vehicle. And by the time he remembered the exhibits here seemed to come to life at night... it was already too late.  


_“ATTACK!”_

 

The miniatures jumped out of the toy, pouncing on his hand -- poking and punching and slicing everything they could. John let out a yelp of shock as he tried to shake them off.

 

“Mr. Reese, what on Earth?”

 

“FOR GIGANTOR!”

 

“FOR MY LIEGE!”

 

They crawled up his arm, trying to cause as much trouble as they could, determined to bring down this strange man with piercing eyes who always seemed to be in a suit.  

 

Truth was, their attack really wasn’t affecting John. Sure, their attempted blows stung a little but… Well, the Agency’s training made any amateur attack feel like frolicking through a meadow.

 

Though John Reese was not _ever_ one to frolic in a meadow.

 

Not even for Harold.

 

That’s when gladiator miniature made a noticeable scratch on John’s suit with his little sword and _that’s_ when John had had it. Because anyone who even tried to damage a suit given by Harold… Well, let’s just say it would be a foolish mistake.

 

(He also had no interest in explaining how his clothes got ruined by _miniatures_ to Fusco when the man finally arrived).

 

“Mr. Reese, are they _alive_?” John was focused more so on grabbing both of the miniatures than he was on answering Harold. It only took a few seconds to grab hold of them, but it had been a few seconds too long in John’s opinion.

 

“What do you think, Harold?”

 

“Let us go, you foul beast!”

 

“Yeah, or else!”

 

John was beginning to get a headache.

 

Scratch that -- he was past a potential headache and moving on into migraine land.

 

“If you and your lover,” _What is it with people assuming they were in a relationship together?_ “Could cease in your potentially despicable machinations--”

 

“Okay, okay. Hold on a minute, Octy. What does ‘machinations’ even mean?”

 

“It’s a plot or scheme.” Harold helpfully supplied.

 

“Quite right, thank you.”

 

“My pleasure.” _And what a surreal experience this is, defining words to a miniature cowboy._

 

“As I was saying--”

 

“Guys?”

 

“Gigantor!”

 

“My liege!”

 

Seriously, John and Harold had some of the most misfortune timing.

 

“Ah, Mr. Daley, what a pleasant surprise.”

 

“How do you know my name?” At this, Harold came to a stop. John waited a moment, nudging his friend and giving him a chance to respond.

 

“We’re--” Harold trailed off, for some reason unable to think on the fly. John gave him another moment.

 

Perhaps it was the fact that the situation was shaping into something of a fanfiction. Perhaps it was the fact that Harold was never with John when they were caught by someone in the field.

 

Either way, a reasonable explanation that would be bought by a night-guard and two miniatures was not coming to mind.

 

“We--” The potential explanation started up again but, as stated before, it just really wasn’t happening. So, John gave one more moment of silence just in case Harold’s ability to smooth things over miraculously came back.

 

“We’re just a concerned third party.” The vigilante eventually, and rather gruffly, spoke for his boss.

 

(And if the gruffness was to mask any alleged humor, it worked rather well.)

 

“You _again!”_ But, as Larry started to take a step towards John, clearly suspicious of the man, Harold beat him to it. The recluse immediately stood in front of his friend, attempting to shield him from the night-guard.

 

“I’m sure you have many questions, Mr. Daley,”

 

“You bet I’ve got some questions.” Suffice to say, Larry was unimpressed with this. And kind of irritated that someone had snuck into his museum _again._

 

“Yes, well, we don’t mean you any harm.”

 

“Sure you don’t!” It was almost admirable that someone of the cowboy’s stature could be so sarcastic.

 

Clearly, this was going to be a long night.

 

_._

 

“Something's changed.” Neal said, listening to the door again.

 

“No, really?”

 

“Are you sure sarcasm is what you should be treating me with, Peter? Seeing as how, you know, I _am_ the person who can let us out.”

 

“Oh, _so_ sorry, _my liege_.”

 

“Much better.”

 

“... So, what's changed?”

 

“Pretty sure they're not talking anymore.”

 

“Well then, let's get out of here!”

 

“Do you really dislike my company that much, Peter? I'm wounded beyond words.”

 

“I'm not going to respond to that.”

 

“But, by responding to my response, you are in fact--”

 

“Open the door, Neal." A pause. "I swear to God, if anyone catches us here tonight…”

 

_._

 

**A little while later...**

 

“Okay, we really don't have time for introductions.”

 

“Lawrence, it's in rather bad taste to fight by the side of an ally whose name escapes you. Especially if the battle has yet to come.”

 

“Fine!” Clearly the night guard didn't care for manners at the moment. But if Teddy wanted to know their names, then he was going to know their names.

 

“Teddy and Ahkmenrah, meet Neal, Peter, John and--” He trailed off, not realizing he actually didn't know the name of their fourth companion.

 

“Mr. Finch.” Harold helpfully supplied, for once not hiding behind an obscure bird-related alias. John fixed him with a stare before realizing that the likelihood of anyone believing this encounter was slim. Therefore, it hardly seemed necessary to bring out the cover identities.

 

“Are you also Guardians of Brooklyn?” The Pharaoh asked curiously.

 

“I’m an FBI agent, and he’s my CI.”

 

“Consider us concerned third-parties.”

 

“Oh! Do you have any specialties?” John and Harold exchanged a look at this, silently conversing for a moment.

 

“I’m good with computers. Mr. Reese's specialty is security.” Finch finally spoke, choosing a demure fashion as owlish eyes calculated and observed the whole scene.

 

"Finch, I'm flattered."

 

“What’s your specialty?” Peter asked Larry curiously. “Other than being a night-guard, of course.”

 

“I’m good with... Mag-lites.”

 

Harold and Peter simultaneously quirked an eyebrow at this. The former also noticed that John was clearly cackling on the inside at the response even though his face revealed nothing. Larry, on the other hand, looked like he was kind of dying on the inside while Neal seemed to be concealing a smile.

 

“Well, that’s,” The FBI agent paused, struggling an appropriate response. “... Useful.”

 

At this, a choked snicker emerged from the shadows of the room.

 

“You’ll find, FBI Agent Peter,” Ahkmenrah began to helpfully interrupted the uncomfortable atmosphere, “That Larry makes an excellent guardian of Brooklyn.”

 

“Not only that, but he makes a great defender of the Museum.” Teddy piped in

 

At this, a faint smile emerged from both Ahkmenrah and Larry.

 

“I certainly believe it, Mr. President, Ah-Ahkmenrah.”

 

“Please, if it helps, call me ‘Ahk’.”

 

“And, gentlemen, please, call me Teddy.”

 

At this, all newcomers -- except for Neal, of course -- froze. After all, it’s a little overwhelming by the idea of calling a president by their first name, let alone calling a Pharaoh by a personal nickname.

 

But, even someone who blatantly cloaked themselves in mysterious formalities could return the favor.

 

“In that case, it’s Harold.” At this, it became John’s turn to quirk an eyebrow -- seeing as how his employer had never officially extended such an invitation to him. Said employer immediately sent a certain glance towards his employee, and John relaxed.

 

For while Harold had never given such an invitation, by this point he really didn’t have to. Their relationship was already past that stage, it had flung itself across that boundary in a train station months ago.

 

Speaking of flinging,

 

“GIGANTOR! WE’RE IN TROUBLE!”

 

 It was with immense speed that a certain remote controlled car careened into the room, seizing the attention of everyone. 

 

“My liege.” Octavius himself to be in some sort of trouble, not quite sounding like himself. “We are under attack.”

 

“Lot of guys just busted into the loading bag, Gigantor, and I think one of them said something about gold!”

 

“Okay, I guess this is that danger you were talking about earlier.”

 

“That is quite likely, yes.”

 

“So, we need a plan.” Larry, John, and Peter all glanced back and forth between one another at this, unsure to handle the unusual power dynamics.

 

“Gentlemen,” Harold interrupted, not in the mood. “I do believe Larry has the most knowledge about the museum and therefore should be in charge of any ‘battle plans’ we wish to conceive.”

 

“Alright, guess I’m in charge.” But, this wasn’t the voice of someone who’s had a very stressful week and had reached their limit. This was someone who knew exactly what he needed to do.

 

This was someone who was going to let them help save the day, but he was going to be the one leading the charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone :)
> 
> I'm going on vacation for a few days (something that I still can't believe xD), so I wanted to put this up before heading out! It's finally properly beginning :D


	6. Slashing, Burning, Kneecapping, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter gets a tad serious. Alas, that’s what happens when any kind of fight breaks out.

“Neal, stay with Teddy and Finch and keep them out of trouble!” Peter was starting to chase after John, Larry, Ahkmenrah and the two miniatures.

 

“Mmm, not gonna happen, Peter!” The man called out as he followed the trio, leaving the president and the recluse behind.

 

“Why can’t you just do what you’re told for once?”

 

“Well, you see, partner of mine,” But Larry wasn’t in the mood for the distracting banter.

 

“Guys! Can you go down that hallway, make a left when you pass the Easter Island Head, and look for angry-looking Asian warriors -- aka, the Huns?”

 

“Sure can!” Neal responded for both of them, dragging Peter down the hallway.

 

“Wait, why aren’t we going with you?”

 

“If it’s as bad as Octavius says it is, we’re going to need back-up! And, if you see the Vikings be sure to grab their attention, too!” The men nodded, before properly taking off.

 

It only struck Peter a minute into their sprint exactly what they agreed too.

 

“Vikings? The _Huns?”_

 

“Just make sure not to go confusing them for your wife.” Neal said in that cheeky manner of his. After all, he just had to make sure Peter didn’t mistaken the warriors for another “Hon”.

 

“You’re so childish--” But the informant was already beating him in their official race. And, as a matter of pride, Peter just couldn’t let that happen. "You really need to just stay behind for once!"

 

“Say, please.”

 

“Please!”

 

“Please, what?”

 

“Are you kidding--” The facetious air still carried on, but Neal’s voice inhaled a different tone this time.

 

“Peter, what have _I_ told _you_ about being left behind by my partner?” They rounded the corner. “Besides, I have a feeling you're going to need help this time.”

 

“Oh, you mean with convincing _Attila the Hun and his men_ to not outright kill me?”

 

“Yup. Besides,” Neal’s mouth remained neutral, but his eyes were totally smirking. “You definitely would have gone the wrong way at some point.”

 

Peter came to a stop, glaring at Neal for allowing them to apparently go in the wrong direction.

 

"I swear to--"

 

"You do know I'm joking right?"

 

_I'm not going to punch Neal in the face. I am a responsible adult who will not punch Neal in the face. There is no subtext telling me to punch Neal in the face because I am a responsible adult who does not punch anyone, let alone Neal Caffrey, in the face._

 

Two minutes later, both men were getting more than a little breathless from running.

 

“So much for knowing which way to go--” That's when they met up with their target.

 

“You were saying?”

 

Said target was very confused. And when the Huns are confused, it’s best to get out of their way.

 

Instead of, you know, staring at them in a mixture of fear and astonishment while trying to figure out where the nearest exit is.

 

“Uh, Neal, this is where your charming self comes into the equation.”

 

Attila took a step towards them and said something to his men that Peter didn't quite like the sound of. 

 

“Oh, Peter, I didn’t realize you considered me charming.”

 

_“Not.”_ Teeth gritted and gnawed on the words as the Huns started to approach. _“Now.”_

 

_._

 

“So, what’d you and Glasses do to end up here of all places?”

 

“Lionel, perfect timing.” They were almost at the loading bay when they bumped into the detective.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hey, you didn’t mention anything about a break-in. Or us breaking-in, for that matter.”

 

“Which do you prefer, _Lionel,_ a break-in or a homicide?”

 

“Okay, we seriously don’t have time for this!” Larry was sure that if he were watching all of this on TV, he’d be busting up at the deadpan humor and the subtle comedy. But, this wasn’t TV and they seriously needed to get their act together.

 

“You’ve got a gun, right?” He bluntly asked Fusco who nodded. “Great. Protect Ahk and take him back to his tablet so he can get what he needs, okay?”

 

The detective spared a glance at John for confirmation that he should be listening to this new guy, but got nothing in return.

 

_Oh, and thanks for the clarification on why the hell I’m here, buddy. So considerate of-- ah, whatever. You not giving me anything to work with ain’t new to me._

 

He turned expectantly to the night-guard guy, an affirmative answer already leaving his lips. But, this is Fusco. So, naturally, he got curious about something else, still not fully ready to be an unquestioning team player. "Say, where’s Glasses?”

 

“Harold,” Because Larry could only guess that’s who the detective is referring to. “Is with Teddy.”

 

“‘Teddy’? What, like Teddy Roosevelt _?_ ” It's moment like these that prove that even if it were his last moment, Fusco just wouldn’t be able to leave the world without sharing his inherent love of sarcasm.

 

“I’m proud of you, detective, you remember some of your history." An annoying pause came that was all too familiar to Lionel. "You've still got homework.”

 

_Seriously, it just isn’t fair how scary words like “homework” and “history” can sound coming out of Wonderboy’s mouth._

 

"Okay, okay, I can take a hint!”

 

Fusco was now retreating with Ahkmenrah for the apparently-necessary-for-some-reason detour, still not getting why the hell he was here but also knowing that now was not the time to be a smart-ass.

 

“Ready to slash and burn, my liege?” John grimly smiled at this question, starting to direct all of his anger at the intruders as he readied his gun -- they were now seconds away.

 

“Hell yes.”

 

_“Please refrain from doing so, Mr. Reese. I hardly think we want to indirectly fire Mr. Daley for destruction of museum -- oh dear...”_

 

“... Finch?” 

 

_._

 

_How the hell does he do that?_

 

It took less than a minute for Neal to get the Attila and his men to redirect all of their confusion and put it towards running to any other potential spot of invasion Larry and the others couldn't cover.

 

_It’s just not fair._

 

"You know you love me!" Neal playfully called out over the sounds of angry warrior cries.

 

Peter could only groan in response.

 

_So. NOT. Fair._

 

_._

 

“You want to explain to me how this works?” Being fashionably late to the party apparently meant getting saddled with some Pharaoh from who knows when. Oh, and yeah, apparently magic is a real thing and it can even bring back people who should probably be dead.

 

Let's just say that tonight it was painfully clear once again that Lionel Fusco was not paid enough for this.

 

“We need to guard my tablet and be prepared for the possibility that those men may get through the defenses.” Though it was spoken in a painstakingly neutral tone, Fusco got the idea that this was a plan someone else put together and that this -- _Ahkmonrauh?? Ahkiramanuah?? --_ wasn't really fond of being on the sideline.

 

Personally, he wouldn't mind not being in the center of the fight this time. Maybe it'd result in him  _not_ getting shot at for once.

 

“Because this tablet is magical?” Disbelief colored the words, suspicion of some practical joke put together by one John Reese being the reason.

 

“Yes.”

 

_This seriously better not be some joke._ It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

 

But that is a story for a later time…

 

“So, if the tablet’s missing, what, everything stops? Pixie dust explodes? We go swimming with the fishes?”

 

The Pharaoh didn't answer the question, caught up in his own frustrating thoughts as they got closer and closer to the tablet.

 

“Hey, King Tut,” Because that apparently was going to be Ahkmenrah’s nickname.

 

“Please, call me Ahk.”

 

“Alright, Ahk, new question.” Lionel briefly looked towards where they were running. “You want to tell me why the hell we’re running towards those moving Egyptian stone monster things that look like something out of _The Mummy_?”

 

The description coaxed a rather weak chuckle from the Pharaoh -- he was still irritated with being essentially benched this time.

 

“Those would be my personal guards.”

 

“Of course they are. Why am I not surprised?”

 

Larry Daley at least got money for this.

 

But, as stated before, Lionel Fusco was just not paid enough for this.

 

(If he was even getting paid for it at all).

 

_._

 

_“It would be my pleasure.”_ Although the sound of John's voice brought Harold some of his own pleasure, the genius had to focus on the bigger picture. Which meant reigning in the potential violence and destruction that would inevitably occur at the hands of his employee.

 

“Please refrain from doing so, Mr. Reese.” His voice echoed tonelessly throughout the empty hall, “I hardly think we want to indirectly fire Mr. Daley for destruction of museum --"

 

So much for being empty.

 

"Oh dear...”

 

The problem was with this entire scenario is that no surveillance meant no capability of knowing where the enemy was. Which threw out the concept of security, let alone the idea that surprises weren't going to slam into them.

 

_“... Finch?”_

  

And, speaking of surprises,

 

“Party’s over, boys.” The man must’ve snuck through before they officially began to fight back for the museum. In any case, he was armed and ready to kill -- there was no doubt about that.

 

Harold tensed at this, tightening his hold on Bear's leash and running through any and all likely probabilities.

 

_“Finch?”_

 

Now, Harold knew that John was all the way on the other side of the museum and was not going to be here in time to save them. Nor would there be time to command Bear to attack in this instance.

 

His eyes flickered to the gun that was already out, his breath tightened for moment as his hands clenched into fists. The feeling of rage and serenity swam through his entire being, even as his mind robotically mapped out all scenarios.

 

Rage bubbled within due the fact that he had been so damn careless -- and, now, John was going to have to survive without him.

 

_“... Harold?”_

 

Serenity pierced through his veins, reminding him that he's had the best partnership he’s ever been able to hold on to -- and, now, he's created something he's truly proud of.

 

And while it was going to be a shame having to say goodbye, at least this way John will be spared the pain of witnessing it first-hand.

 

(Though, witnessing it all via a comm-link isn't all that much better.)

 

“It’s been an honor, Mr. Pr-- Teddy.”

 

"Shut up!" The gun was now pointed solely at Harold and the man readied himself for his fate.

 

If the scene hadn't felt so painfully real, he might've laughed at its cliche qualities.

 

As it was, he was so accepting of this moment that his previously coursing emotions seemed to be drowning him in a surreal indifference. 

 

It's true that they have faced odds like this many times before and almost always miraculously escape as though some higher power had given them immortality.

 

It's also true that he’s faced guns down and somehow walked away plenty of times in this last year alone. Death has waltzed through his breath and almost stolen his capabilities to escape it -- and still, he manages to be pushed into the pulsing embrace of life.

 

This feels different.

 

This is that suffocating torture not unlike the one he’d experienced upon being kidnapped by Root. That miserable terror that was so constricting, he now feels nothing but a numbing, apathetic and false peace.

 

_“Harold!”_

 

This whole moment feels so careless and stupid that it can only end in someone’s blood.

 

And, with the way things are looking, it's going to be his.

 

“My boy,” Teddy had been caught off guard by this attack and was now attempting to reason with the assailant. “Surely this doesn't have to end in--”

 

It was too late.

 

_._

 

A shot rang out alongside something else and a scream echoed with them both into the halls.

 

John couldn't breathe.

 

He was past the point of seeing red.

 

He was far beyond caring about keeping this "tidy".

 

And while his bullets only crash into kneecaps, they somehow drag his wrath into the flesh and through the blood. His scathing punches are far more searing than knives, having been coldly sharpened by his terror of the unknown.

 

_“You boys, alright?”_

 

The vigilante slams his fist into his incoming opponent’s face at the sound of Carter’s voice making it into the comm-link.

 

But he can't hope for the best.

 

_“Teddy?”_

 

Their luck is going to eventually run out, if it already hasn't tonight.

 

“Harold?”

 

He can’t hope for anything until he heard that voice. Even as he's swiping another piece of scum mercilessly to ground, even as the violence is blurring into a hailstorm of fury, he can’t focus on anything other than--

 

_“It’s okay, John."_

 

This powered a new surge of adrenaline.

 

_"I’m okay.”_

 

It's enough to take down two more guys who very foolishly thought they could land a punch.

 

“Harold,”

 

A body falls.

 

It isn’t his.

 

“If you ever _think_ of doing that ever again,”

 

It's almost cathartic, releasing all of the undiscussed tension from the last two years into a maelstrom of controlled, hell-hath-no-fury chaos. He's seeing the train station, the casino, the guns that had almost killed them, the blood that had almost left them.

 

“Slashing and burning will be the _least_ of your concerns.”

 

Because John would turn the world inside out to keep Harold alive. John would walk through a circle of hellfire for the man, he’d chase down any trail that led to Harold staying safe and breathing, he’d even get rid of his weapons stash and chuck it into the Atlantic if that guaranteed anything.

 

Those concepts aren't promises.

 

They are, most assuredly, _facts_.

 

And, though Harold never did give an official response to this, John knew the man got the message.

 

_._

 

“When did you have the opportunity to bump into the lady detective, my love?”

 

The two women share a look at this, one that speaks of an interesting encounter. But, before they could share their story with Teddy, the sounds of fighting come back with a vengeance.

 

And this time it's coming from the main entrance hall.

 

“I’m afraid there’s no time for further conversation. Is Mr. McPhee’s computer nearby?”

 

“Right this way, my boy!”

 

It said something that Joss didn’t even question why two historical figures currently appeared to be alive. And while Harold would commend her for her open-mindedness later, right now they had a museum to protect.

 

_Please, let them be alright._

 

Harold is not one to pray. But, when drastically unexpected factors are thrown into the equation (in essence, when magic is shoved into his face), he can’t help but feel rather caught off-guard. And, seeing as how though he managed to escape relatively unscathed seconds ago, that meant the odds were no longer in John’s favor tonight.

 

And, so, although he refuses to outright pray, he settles for an equivalent.

 

_Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of please, please let me know if you got any of the scattered fanfic (and movie) references in this chapter :) E-hug (or e-cookies) for anyone who did!


	7. I Get By With A Little Help...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full Title: I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends (And That One A.I.)
> 
> There's another lovely reference to another great FF (and I'm eventually going to post all of the references made in the last two chapters for anyone who's interested)

As was so frequent with any case, it was all going to hell.

 

It wasn't so much the fact that they couldn't handle the number of bad guys. It was the fact that enough had slipped through before Octavius and Jed could warn them.

 

Suffice to say, John was getting in his daily work-out and then some.

 

“You said your guy knows how to work computers, right?” Larry shouted over the fight. Fortunately, it was still mostly a fist and knife fight. Better still, John was able to take care of anybody who even thought of using a firearm.

 

Nevertheless, the men breaking in were undoubtedly professionally trained.

 

Still, John had to admit -- with a certain hesitation soaked in curious bemusement -- that it was true that Larry was quite skilled with his Mag-lite.

 

And, now John was learning not to underestimate anyone who professed to such skills.

 

“Finch, you there?”

 

_“Always, Mr. Reese.”_

 

A gun was finally brought out, pointed directly at John’s chest. Seems he had spoken too soon about taking care of any firearms.

 

“Need a little help, Finch.”

 

And while he didn't want to scare Finch too much, he was going to be reaching the end of his luck in a matter of seconds.

 

_“Brace yourself, John.”_

 

That's the only warning the vigilante got.

 

The shrillest noises slammed mercilessly into every crevice of the museum, causing the gun pointing at John to instantaneously plummet. And as god awful as the cacophony of alarms was, it gave John just enough of an advantage.

 

“Next time Finch, can’t you just cause a blackout or something?”

 

_“Mr. Reese, if you had wanted me to play with the lights, you only had to ask.”_

 

Over the sounds of the blaring alarms and the pains of his growing headache, John growled before turning to his next assailant.

 

There was no time to banter now. But, when they made it through this -- because there was no way in hell this was going to be their last job together -- John was going to give Harold one hell of a lecture on the different forms of distraction.

 

_Though, in retrospect, it did work._

 

_._

 

Waiting around for a fight to come almost always took more energy than the fight itself.

 

“Lionel, Homicide Detective of the 8th Precinct,”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I can entrust you to guard my tablet whilst I maintain the perimeter?”

 

“Uh, why don't I do a perimeter sweep? Wonderboy would probably kill me if I didn't.” Ahkmenrah sighed, shaking his head.

 

“I believe I know this land far better than you,”

 

“No need to rub it in.”

 

“And, therefore, due to my knowledge, it would be wiser for me to ascertain the potential whereabouts of any enemy.”

 

Pharaoh speak for _for Ra’s sake, I need to fight or I will lose my sanity._

 

But, Fusco did not need to know that particular translation. Not in Ahk’s opinion, at the very least.

 

“Aren't I supposed to be protecting the tablet _and_ you?” Ahkmenrah grimly smiled at this before walking towards more of his exhibit in silence.

 

“Hey, where ya going? I can't just disobey orders--”

 

“I'm just retrieving the proof I have that I believe will assure you of the fact that I can take care of myself.”

 

“... What does that even mean?”

 

Fortunately, it only took another moment for the good detective to get his answer.

 

“It means, Lionel,” The khopesh gleamed ferociously in the light as Ahkmenrah returned, and Fusco inadvertently gulped at sight of it before taking a step back. “That, as the Guardian of Brooklyn would remark, 'I’ve got this’.”

 

“You sure you know how to use that?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Lionel hesitated to give outright permission -- after all, if Wonderboy didn't approve of this he'd be in a world of trouble. And, if Finch found out, he'd probably never work with any more models again. 

 

But, on the other hand, that was one hell of a weapon.

 

“Okay. But you better be back in thirty minutes!”

 

As Ahkmenrah left, he muttered something inaudible that was most definitely not an agreement or even a false promise. Nevertheless, he was not going to blatantly defy the detective’s orders.

 

He was just going to ignore them.

 

The good detective turned back to the guards, unbeknownst to this unofficial change in plan and still wary of being left behind with such... charming guards.

 

“So, how's it going, fellas?”

 

They didn't respond.

 

_._

 

Huns, Peter and Neal were discovering, do not care for obnoxious sounds that pervade the entire environment.

 

Huns also, the pair was now realizing, do not care for anyone threatening their home or their family. Or both. 

 

Therefore, if the Huns are an aggressive group, then once those aggressive qualities are triggered whoever did the triggering would really start to regret it. And while it seemed logical enough when written down, it was jaw-droppingly scary as hell to witness this in real life.

 

And, let's not even mention the possibilities of the amount of damage the combined forces of the Huns and the Vikings would create if properly incensed. Far too potent a source to speculate on, especially when one is observing it first-hand.

 

Which brings us to an unlikely pair that was watching the battle from the corner. One member was clearly itching to step into the battle while the other had somehow managed to hold -- but not quite pin -- his companion back.

 

“Don’t even think of entering this fight, Peter-- we’d just be getting in the way,” The informant murmured to his partner, forcing him back with unusual strength. The FBI agent was undoubtedly ready to go into battle, a battle now taking place in the main hall. Still, an abnormally arm held him back.

 

“But--” The desire, the wish to have something useful to do, coursed through his veins. It brought continued strength to charging in full speed ahead. 

 

“You don't have your weapon, there's enough violence as it is, and Elizabeth would kill me if you got hurt.”

 

“It's the last one that really motivates you, isn't it?” But an unwillingly yawn caught Peter before Neal could properly respond. How it had snuck up on him -- when adrenaline throbbed throughout him -- was a question he'd never get the answer to. 

 

But, the fact that it did was rather telling in itself.

 

“Is it already past your bedtime, Peter?” He eased up slightly when it came to restricting the man, smirking. “In that case, we _really_ have to--”

 

“Look out!”

 

For years to come, Peter would not be able to figure out how he almost missed a T-Rex running into the fray. But, he did up until the very last second. And what was the result? 

 

He got a front row ticket that allowed him watch Neal turn only to get whacked by a skeletal tail that was currently mowing down all in its path -- friend or foe.

 

_“NEAL!”_ Peter couldn't remember running to his partner, but suddenly he was by his friend’s side. “Neal, you’re not allowed to escape this partnership because of some damn T-Rex. Neal, talk to me!”

 

Although he had been momentarily stunned by being flung into the air for a solid moment, witticisms soon weakly rose to the surface.

 

“It’s the T-Rex part that really gets you, isn't it?” The sarcastic echo was an unusually worn out sound for the man. Because of it, Peter was motivated to move his friend as quickly as he could out of harm’s way.

 

There was no blood, no gashes or cuts, and no obvious contusions. But it'd be a surprise if the informant didn't wake up incredibly sore tomorrow.

 

“I'm okay, really.”

 

“And I stole a Degas.”

 

“Really?” A sharp look was given as a response, but that's all that was given.

 

“Let's get you out of here, and somewhere safe.” And to think that only moments ago he had wanted something to do, some form of action to take.

 

Well, this wasn't what he had in mind.

 

“Did you really steal a Degas?”

 

“Wait! Agent giant-- _Peter_ _!”_ The man being called looked around, momentarily forgetting some of the people in the room were only three inches tall. “Take Octy with you and get him to safety.”

 

The Roman general was out cold and currently being carried by the cowboy. Peter didn't hesitate as he scooped up the miniature, gently pocketing him.

 

“What happened?”

 

“No time for that! Just promise me you'll take care of him, okay?” The agent grimly nodded.

 

“I will. Where's the nearest office?”

 

_._

 

No fires erupted and little blood was spilt. Injuries existed, but nothing that Sacagawea couldn't fix with some of her own magic.

 

One by one, the invaders were taken care of. Limbs weren't ripped, big sticks didn't have to be carried, toy cars didn't have to be sacrificed in the process.

 

But a mag-lite was certainly involved.

 

And a few (now broken) kneecaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're not quite at the end. 
> 
> But, a chapter-epilogue-thing is just around the corner, if you can believe it.
> 
> In any case, until next time! Cheers!


	8. Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the official end (though I have an unofficial idea waiting in the final author's note ;D)
> 
> Also, I took a few creative liberties with one of the exhibits. You'll see ;) :)

The door to McPhee’s office creaked ever so slightly as it opened. The creak in itself hardly would be noticeable on a normal night and, even if it had been noticed, it would have been attributed to the wind.

 

This was not a normal night.

 

Finch caught the sound a second before Teddy, tensing as the president readied himself to spring into action.

 

“Harold?” Immediately, the tension drained and the recluse sighed in immense relief.

 

“Mr. Reese,” He greeted calmly as the vigilante stepped out of the shadows and into the room, as though everything had been fine and he hadn't almost been shot only a little while earlier.

 

But, John wasn't going to trust that everything was okay.

 

“Let me assure you, Mr. Reese, I'm quite alright,” As the recluse got up to prove it, he winced at the unexpected discomfort from sitting down for so long. “Or so I thought.”

 

John was by his side in a fraction of a heartbeat.

 

“John, truly, there is no cause --”

 

“I don't want to hear it, Harold.” It was cold, but with their history they both couldn't always be trusted to state the full truth if said truth alarmed the other. Therefore, the employee turned to the former president.

 

“Teddy, would you mind filling me in on anything Finch may have _forgotten_ to?”

 

Let it be known that Teddy, for all of his overwhelming courage and all of his fantastic accomplishments, did not want to get in the middle of whatever this was turning into.

 

“Sorry, my boy, but I do believe I hear Sacagawea calling for me. It would be unwise for me to not answer.” She definitely wasn't in the vicinity, but he did want to be reunited with his love. 

 

(Especially if it got him out of Mr. Reese’s cross hairs.)

 

And, as the president began to skedaddle on out and close the door, he caught a little more of their conversation.

 

“John, really--” But, Harold was interrupted in a heartbeat by something neither the president nor the recluse expected.

 

Nevertheless, apparently, the feeling was mutual.

 

_… Well, that's one way to convey your feelings._

 

Granted, it's true that adrenaline had a fantastic power even over the most trained of individuals. Furthermore, Teddy didn't feel it was necessarily in his place to remark on such matters nor continue eavesdropping on the pair -- seeing as how their actions were escalating into something that could considered far more than just risque.

 

Besides, it probably wasn't his place to comment on such matters, considering it took him a good number of decades to even approach the woman who unknowingly held his affections.

 

And, so, the 26th President of these United States carried on, eager to find his love once more and confirm that all was indeed well within their little world.

 

_._

 

“Jedidiah,” He hadn't gone to fight.

 

He had stayed by Octavius's side the entire time since the man collapsed. 

 

Now, they were alone -- in one of the many  shelters scattered throughout the museum the soldiers and cowboys had created for those of their size. And now, Octavius was finally waking up.

 

"What happened?" It was hoarse, it was disoriented. And Jedidiah never wanted to hear it again.

 

"You got taken down by mistake." His own voice was far too neutral. "But, I got you out of there."

 

“In that case,"

 

"Don't speak." But, the Roman was a stubborn being. Very much so like his companion.

 

"I wish to thank you for saving my life back in the main hall.” The words faded into pain, were smothered by sudden aches and a dizziness he never wanted to experience again.

 

The blond man had his gaze fixed to the ground, unwilling to be a witness to this. But, no matter what, all he could see was the pain. Looking at the floor triggered the sounds of Octavius slamming into it. Looking at the man in question only brought back the merciless action back to the forefront of his mind.

 

“You can thank me by never doing that again.”

 

There was a confused silence at this, one accentuated by heavy breathing and the sounds that normally spoke of great fear -- the restless shifting of the body as it tried to forget reality, the inherent tremble that raced through the blood.

 

“I-- I don't understand.”

 

“I can't protect you if you’re jumping in to save me, Octavius!” It was rather serious if the man was resorting to first names. “And I never,  _ever_ want to go through that again.”

 

Jed’s talking about never wanting to see another moment where he can’t tell if his friend is breathing. Those seconds that are slowly followed by a groan of agony he never wants to hear again because it speaks far more honestly than the weakly muttered, “I'm okay, Jedidiah.” that had shortly followed before collapse.

 

“Jedidiah,” The name is now being spoken in a calmer tone. Soothing, even. Like the breeze rippling through a forest, a warm breeze guiding eyes towards the heavenly starry skies.

 

The blue-eyed man still can't be swayed to turn around. Or to stop trembling with that overpowering feeling of helplessness that always accompanies terrifying moments of life-and-death.

 

“Jedidiah,” A hand faintly reaches out to him and he flinches at the unexpected contact. “I cannot promise I’m not going to ‘jump into’ any situation..." Pain stops Octavius from speaking, but only for a moment. "If jumping in allows me the ability to save your life.”

 

The dams that have been holding them both together crack at this admission.

 

Tears started to flow at this, falling from painfully tense springs that were only now starting to release their exhausting burdens.

 

“However, I can and _do_ promise to do my best to stay alive for you.”

 

That got Jed to turn around.

 

That got them both a hug drenched in sobs.

 

_._

 

“In retrospect,” Neal spoke quietly after finally waking up, looking towards his friend with something akin to fondness. “This adventure really hasn’t been helping your sleep schedule.”

 

Peter would have responded, he really would’ve.

 

That is, had he been able to.

 

As it was, he was currently passed out cold and curled up next to Neal on Larry’s couch in the night-guard office. Turns out, it's easy to fall asleep when you've been rather sleep deprived for a few weeks. Add in a couch that could almost be considered comfortable, and dreamless rest is almost guaranteed.

 

_Seeing as how I just got slammed by a T-Rex, I'm probably the one who should probably still be sound asleep,_ the man wryly thought to himself. 

 

Now, somehow, thinking of the T-Rex incident and Peter led him to realize that Mozzie had no idea the trouble they've experienced this week.

 

And, for once, he had no idea how to explain it.

 

In any case, Mozzie wouldn’t believe any light-hearted explanation if there were bruises to go along with his aches and pain. He’d immediately demand that Neal put a stop to any abuse suffered by the hands of those “Suits” and that enough was enough.

 

... Though, on second thought, Mozzie just might believe him if he was honest about everything. It was Mozzie, after all.

 

And museums secretly coming to life because of magic is right up there with the moon landing being faked.

 

“I believe, Neal Caffrey, Global Artist of Conning,” _Boy, I could get used to hearing that phrase._ “This is what Larry would refer to as a ‘Kodak’ moment.”

 

Neal grinned at this remark, his eyes lighting up at his new friend standing in the doorway.

 

“You know, Ahk,” His phone was already out and in his hands. “I think you’re right. Mind taking a quick photo?”

 

_._

 

By the time Lionel finally got used to be surrounded by the Anubis-whats-it-statue things, his wonderful partner poked her head around the corner.

 

“Have you been hiding here the _entire_ time, Fusco? The fight’s been over for an hour.”

 

Lionel stared her down for a solid minute in disbelief.

 

“Are you kidding me, Carter?”

 

“Not one bit.”

 

“Then where the hell is that Pharaoh kid?”

 

“Ahk? He's the one who told me I'd probably find you here.”

 

“... Seriously?” She just gave him another look. “You've gotta be kidding me.”

 

_._

 

“Mr. R-- John, there is one question I have.”

 

After conveying their feelings for one another and properly understanding their respective emotions, the pair aimlessly wandered the halls with Bear -- filled with energy and somehow drained at the same time.

 

“Yeah, Harold?” They came to a bemused halt, as Harold pivoted to properly face his partner.

 

“At the beginning of this ordeal, you had mentioned having a question for me. And, well, it seems trivial now, but I am curious as to whether or not you remember it.”

 

John paused, wracking his brain to bring the thought back. After a moment, the metaphorical light bulb sprang to life and another smile was brought into the open.

 

“I take it you remember?” The man nodded, guiding his friend down a familiar path.

 

“There's actually two questions now.” But before he asked anything, John took stock of everything going on to make sure nothing was going to interrupt them.

 

After a few seconds of that, he decided to just screw it and ask because something would interrupt them no matter what he did.

 

“First, do you like museums?” Harold did a slight double-take at this before letting his features form a dryer equivalent of a smirk.

 

“Ignoring what happened here tonight? Why, yes, I admit I rather enjoy museums from time to time.” That, of course, brings back a memory of another museum -- an art museum and a day that resulted in trusting love reinforcing itself in a manner he really hadn't expected.

 

But, Grace has become a wonderful ghost sketched in memory. And, to think on times such as those when he now has John…

 

She will always be there.

 

It's just different now.

 

As Harold attempts to pull himself out of a gloomy nostalgia, John guides him to the entrance of an unmarked exhibit before coming to a stop.

 

“I take it this relates to your second question, _Mr. Reese?”_ It's hardly as playful as he would've liked it, still hinting of inherent gloominess, but both men can tell that Harold is not using the formality as a shield or boundary.

 

And he certainly wouldn't be for quite some time.

 

“Correct, _Finch._ ” Somehow, he put the flirtation normally reserved for the recluse’s first name into this statement. Stranger still, that made the remark rather arousing.

 

_Or, maybe, that’s panic._

 

_No, no, it definitely feels more like arousal. Or, rather, perhaps it's actually--_

 

“My second question is, what do you think of bioluminescence?”

 

“Pardon?” Harold was genuinely stumped by the change in subject. To the point where he turned to his partner and missed John opening the door of the unmarked exhibit. The man merely smiled, looking straight on into the pitch black room before them.

 

That's when Harold turns once again and realizes the life surrounding thee darkness inside.

 

_“John.”_ He murmurs in astonishment, stepping into the colorful shadows adorning the room.

 

Fireflies twirl soothingly into the abyss, jellyfish sink delicately through the air. In the distance, coral breathes in serendipity as though surrounded by blissfully calm water. This entire world, a space bathed in darkness, inherits wonderfully breathtaking life every night. 

 

It is inspiring to say the least.

 

“It's a temporary exhibit. Won’t be open to the public for a few more weeks. But,” The man pauses, not quite trailing off but certainly coming to a verbal stop. It isn't quite a shy moment, but it's the closest he can get.

 

But, this is worth being flustered and nervous. And, so, he continues.

 

“I had stepped in here by mistake the first night."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Yeah." Another pause, this one containing mixed feelings, but tied together with empowering love. "And when I saw all of the wonders hidden behind such an unassuming door, I couldn't help but think of you.”

 

Of course, John didn't say anything to Harold at the time this happened.

 

There was a job to be done, a number to watch, feelings to ignore.

 

But, that was then. That was when he couldn't ever imagine he’d be watching Harold walk back towards him with a face so unreserved, so trusting. That was before he realized there are different versions of magic -- cheesy as it seemed.  

 

That was before they could share a breathtaking moment like this.

 

They embrace at some point in the dazzling shadows, and after awhile Bear even turns it into a pack hug of sorts. Nobody speaks for a quite a time, content to seemingly drift through the glowing colors and life that swirls around them.

 

“It’s official: we will be coming back.”

 

The vigilante smiles once more at this, pleased to see they were both in agreement about this.

 

But, there is just one more worry that John has. Something that he knows will expound into a far larger fear if he doesn't address it right here and right now.

 

“Are you sure you're up for this, Finch?” He needs to be absolutely sure that his friend isn't just caught up in the adrenaline of the moment. That this change in relationship isn't a thrilling and recklessly impulsive decision that would result in a destroyed partnership.

 

He also has to be sure that guilt is playing no part in this.

 

Because that's something he can't stand from anyone, let alone the man he was currently embracing.

 

Harold doesn't respond for quite some time. Not, because he doesn't have the answer. Rather, because he needs John to know that -- for all of the impulsivity and adventure of the night -- this isn't a careless or reckless decision. That this isn't manufactured by obligation or some sort of burden.

 

Eventually, the words float into the air, seemingly lighting up into the sky alongside the fireflies.

 

“Always, John.”

 

They stay like that for as long as they can, just breathing into one another in a world of their own.

 

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, as a certain president would remark, it’s sunrise.
> 
> Now, there's one last thing before I call it a night (and this is what I was talking earlier, CactusNoir ;) ) --
> 
> I've composed a few bonus scenes for each fandom -- extra scenes, silly moments, stuff like that. Would you be interested in reading any of it?
> 
> In either case, have a nice day!


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